


softer

by charmtion



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dark Jon, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25679131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmtion/pseuds/charmtion
Summary: ‘There is hate in her heart to match the rage in his own by the time he has finished his feast, left a famine in his wake. An emptiness that aches for more of him already — a bruising hollow that is her body, her entire being.’One-shot—glimmer of an upcoming wip. Dark Jonsa.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 31
Kudos: 108





	softer

There is salt on her skin, her fingertips. Sansa frowns as she runs her tongue lazily across her bottom lip, tastes it there, too. Distantly she thinks of the sea, cold water splashing at her ankles, the haze of lilacs bordering the years of her childhood, their soft petals turning in the salt-stiffened breeze.

She remembers sitting on a stone wall somewhere. Red can in her hand, bubbles on her tongue: little fizz of teenaged summer. Biker shorts, a tee-shirt two sizes too big. Her nipples brushed up against the thin fabric in the chill air of the morning. Those dark eyes resting on their pebbled press—

A long wet sound draws her back into the room, away from her reveries. The sweat cools on her skin, lifts the salt from her fingertips, her lips. Her mind clears. There are hands notched above her hipbones, thumbs pushing up into her ribs, a tongue between her thighs. There are dark eyes lifting to meet with her own.

Jon’s eyes.

 _Jon_.

He pulls back, puts his palms to the swell of her thighs and parts her — carefully, deliberately — holds her gaze as he lets the silvery strand of spit slip from his mouth to her cunt. Spreads it there slowly with his thumb, then his tongue.

Sansa tips her head into the pillow. Her eyes are somewhere inside her skull: rolled back, flutters of white-shot black light as she blinks, moans.

The tip of his tongue balances a little pressure on her clit. A flicker, a circle, then his mouth opens and — slowly, so _slowly_ — he takes her in on a flattened lick, a suck that makes ribbons of her soul, echoes up wet and sloppy to the ceiling. Her hips rock reflexively, quake as his growl shivers up the bones of them.

‘Move again and I’ll stop.’

A damp sound flutters in her throat, a half-hearted protest ebbing out sharply as he gives another slow, rolling suck. His head turns as he does so. Back and forth, a nuzzle of curls and cheeks against the soft skin of her thighs, her belly as he laps softly.

She bites her lip. ‘I want— _fuck_.’

‘I didn’t ask you what you want.’ 

‘But— ’

He growls again, and she shuts up with a sigh — _yes_ — because his finger circling, slipping up inside her is all she wants: now, ever, _there! please, please_. He crooks it; her hips squirm to follow its pull, held-fast as they are by the weight of his arm across them. Another finger now, knuckle-deep, then slowly pushing in. She feels herself contract, clamp down so hard, so greedily she isn’t sure he’ll be able to move— _oh_.

Oh, but he does.

He _does_.

Two fingers fluttering, wading a wave of wetness. The sound of them scissoring. A blush blankets blood — hot, salty — beneath her cheeks. She can feel how sticky her skin is, can feel the warmth sliding down her thighs. He lifts his mouth from her clit just long enough to track the trails with his tongue, laps round his own fingers, then licks back up into her. Her spine arches, her body is a bow strung from the ceiling, pulled up toward it.

Quickens the curling of his fingers, tips of them pressing soft, sensitive spots a little too hard. Bite of pleasure-pain. Her nipples strain against the chill air of the room; she deepens their ache with her thumbs.

That tee-shirt, his eyes on them through its thin fabric — rolls her tongue round her thumb, lowers it back to circle at that memory now. Nips at her nipple with the pearls of her nails, soothes the sting away as he pulls at her clit, sucks it over and under with his tongue. His fingers probe deeper, harder. A whimper writhes from her lips.

‘No,’ she breathes. ‘Soft — _softer_.’

‘Mm. Like that?’

His voice is almost gentle: a glimmer of who he was before. Soft lips — half a smile — a plush, wet tongue drowning her in heat. Fingers slipping free, then sliding back inside. She flutters around them, frowns at how — _why_ — flesh feels so good ground against flesh, burrowed up inside it, working it, _fitting_ it as if it is meant to rest there, remain there for— 

‘Just like that,’ she whispers. ‘Just like that, Jon.’

—ever.

His flesh, hers. The way he fits inside her like this. She wants to be on her knees for him suddenly, wants to wet his cock with her mouth, pull back, spread her legs and let him slide it where his fingers are stirring here, now. The thought of him back where he belongs — lilacs scatter soft clouds behind her eyes, the fizz on her tongue is a tenet of her teenage years: his name, gasped.

‘ _Jon_.’

But he isn’t that boy anymore. He’s not even the man he grew up into. He is different. There is a rage in him: silent, deadly. Hearing his name — even gasped in pleasure — turns him to heat, to hate. His fingers curl harder, like he wants to punch a way out of her depths, hook her up, spit her out even as he drags her closer.

‘Quiet.’

‘I — ’

‘Be _quiet_ ,’ he says. ‘Come. Now, Sansa.’

Somewhere amidst the jumbled cogs turning in her mind, the tone of his voice trickles in like oil: thick, tarry. Spins some sense to how they turn and, even though she is only halfway-wound to a crest, she comes. Hard.

‘That’s it. Come for me.’

It is all wrong even as it feels so good, so right — and she slices his scalp with her nails now, kicks a heel into his back because he hasn’t let up, and she is so sensitive, so spread and tender that the bite of pleasure-pain consumes her ribcage, rakes a sharp blaze of heat between her hipbones, threatens to burn her up entirely.

‘I can’t— ’

‘You can,’ he growls. ‘You will. Again — _now_.’

She does.

Oh, she _does_.

* * *

There is hate in her heart to match the rage in his own by the time he has finished his feast, left a famine in his wake. An emptiness that aches for more of him already — a bruising hollow that is her body, her entire being.

He kisses her fleetingly. She tastes the salt of herself on his tongue; but the sea has been burned from her thoughts, and no lilacs bloom softly at the borders of her mind. There is just the here and now: he and her — the tangled wreckage of the years that pin them together in this moment.

The smile he gifts her now is hard, bitter at its edges.

‘Good,’ he breathes. ‘Hate me, Sans.’ Brushes that hard-edged smile against her trembling lower lip. ‘Hate me so much it _hurts_.’

She bares her teeth, bites at bitterness. ‘I do. I fucking _do_.’

‘Not enough,’ he whispers. ‘You’re still here.’

Jon kisses her again, almost sweetly. Sansa opens her mouth to him, looks into those dark eyes — seethes at the slate of them, aches for the softer shade they used to be.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

>   
> 
> 
>   
> This is part of a larger piece I am currently writing based on Jon surviving a car-wreck and coming back a changed man. Sansa, his emergency contact and estranged lover/friend, is drawn to help him heal despite the history between them, which is not all sweet. It has darkish undertones, and is something quite different to anything I have written before. Thank _[NFWMB](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PHlJlICw3jY) _ for inspiring me to finish this section & share it here this eve (or a.m. as it is where I am...) Hope you enjoyed if you are here, and maybe let me know what you think! ❤️


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